


The Heart of a Star

by Strange_Soulmates



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stardust Fusion, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Slytherin's Locket
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 02:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10350528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_Soulmates/pseuds/Strange_Soulmates
Summary: Tom Riddle is seventeen when he learns of his heritage and crosses over the wall to the land of his birth, leaving bodies in his wake.  Tom thrives in Faerie, soon a Sorcerer of no small renown.  When a star falls, Tom wastes no time in crossing the kingdom to collect it.  After all, he who possesses the heart of a star shall live forever.  In order for the heart to have the most power, the star must be truly happy.  Harry Potter, it turns out, is a stubborn, difficult to please star. To make matters worse, others are trying to take what Tom has already claimed as his own.  Still, no matter what it takes, Tom will consume the star's heart.  He refuses to let anything stop him from gaining immortality.  Not even a pair of enchanting green eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leontina (Leontina)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leontina/gifts).



> Another much belated gift for asexualsiriusblack on tumblr, who asked for a Stardust AU which quickly spiraled out of control. I am sorry your tomarrytine gift was so delayed and is still incomplete. Still, I hope you like it.
> 
> We probably won't meet Harry until chapter three, but I just had too much fun with Tom's backstory.
> 
> Please forgive any mistakes. Comments are always adored!

Tom Riddle first heard of the Faerie Market the spring after he turned seventeen.  

Determined to claw his way out of the filth he'd been born into and spend as much time as possible away from the damned orphanage, Tom had buried himself in his studies from a young age.  Education, he knew, was his best chance to make something of himself.  Throughout history, two things served to raise men of ill birth from obscurity into greatness - war and education.

War was out of the question.  Tom refused to die before he had left his mark on history.  The idea of dying in obscurity and mud was unthinkable.

Tom was born to be respected, to be feared.  Tom would do whatever it took. If the orphanage had taught Tom one thing, it was that nothing was ever given to you. You had to take what you wanted, and had to fight to keep it.

Eton, he knew, was the most important step towards securing that future.  More important than his education would be the connections he would make at school. Tom himself might not be rich or blue blooded, but he knew he would need the support and influence of those who were.

Looking around him now, Tom allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile.  He was holding court in his room in the College boarding house of Eton, a practice that had become common the past few years.  The boys who surrounded him were by no means his only followers, simply those who Tom had deemed worthy of being in his inner circle.  Those with access to the most power, the most influence.

Future Lords and prominant businessmen sat around him, all of them desperate to please, desperate to offer him whatever it was they could, all for a scrap of his attention. Exactly as it should be.

The current topic of discussion was the short leave for Summer Half. Namely, who would be given the honor of hosting Tom during the break and what they might get up to.

"Wait..." Crouch said, sitting up suddenly.  "It's a Faerie Market year, isn't it?"

Some of Tom's circle looked at him as if he had spoken in tongues, but the rest sat up, their excitement obvious.

"Christ, it is, isn't it?" Black said.  "I can't believe it's been nine years already."

Catching the looks the rest of the group was giving him, Black grinned.

"Right, you lot aren't from around here, are you?"

They weren't Tom realized suddenly.  Those boys who had looked excited at the prospect of Faerie Market were those who had grown up in London or in the area immediately surrounding it.

"You have to go," Black said. "I swear, it's the most amazing thing you'll ever see. You won't believe your eyes. It only comes around once every nine years, but its worth the wait. I thought everyone was being an idiot and exaggerating, but it's...it's _magical_."

Tom uncrossed his legs and sat forward in his chair, eyes fixed intently on Black. All the other boys averted their eyes, looking nervous, while Tom pinned Black in place with his gaze. While it was true that Black was dramatic and at times prone to flights of fancy, every member of Tom's inner circle knew better than to use the word magic lightly.

Before gaining entrance to his inner circle, all of the boys around him had gone through an initiation.  The new member would stand in the center of a ring formed by the inner circle members.  Then Tom would step forward and show them all _exactly_  what he was capable of.

It hadn't taken him long to harness the talents he was born with. Tom was in complete control of his abilities by the time he was six, his powers only growing as he did.  By the time he was ten, Tom could make animals do what he wanted without training them.  He'd hung Billy Stubb's rabbit from the rafters without ever laying a hand on it. Tom knew when he was being lied to, could  _make_  people tell him the truth.  He could make other people  _hurt_ , if he wanted to.  His time in the orphanage hone those abilities.  At seventeen, after years of practice and honing his craft, Tom made his ten year old self look like a street corner magician.

When he was finished tearing the boy apart, surrounding him with snakes that bit on Tom's command, pulling his most guarded secrets from his head as if Tom were reading a book and sharing them aloud for all the circle to hear, making him scream with pain, terrifying him with visions from his worst nightmares playing behind his eyes - only once the boy was well and truly broken would Tom stop.

Tom would take the pieces of the boy, and he would put him back together.  He would heal the hurts he had caused and even more besides, would show the boy the more marvelous aspects of what he would he could do until the boys eyes were wide with wonder instead of terror.  Tom would step forward and place his hands on the boy's shoulder, and tell him that Tom would provide him with his heart's desire in exchange for his loyalty.

By the time he was finished, he owned them.  Totally and completely.

Tom rewarded his inner circle when they honored the oath he made them swear.  And he punished them when they failed him.

"Magical?" Tom asked Black, absentmindedly noting the way the boy blanched.

Yet for all his obvious fear, Black met his gaze and nodded.

"Barty?" Tom asked, turning his attention to Crouch. "Would you agree with Alphard's assessment?"

"Yes," Crouch said, his voice steady. "Magical is the most apt description of the Marketplace I can think of.

Tom crossed his legs once again and stared into the fire, lips pursed in thought. Crouch was a serious, studious boy. One of Tom's most loyal followers. If he said the Marketplace was magical, then magical it was.

Faerie Marketplace. An interesting notion.

Tom had spent most of his life searching for answers about his powers. The popular theory at the orphanage was that he was possessed, but Tom had known that to be false.  He and he alone was responsible for his actions.  That had _always_  been the case.

Devil's spawn had been a more plausible explanation, and the only reason Tom had ever studied the bible with any seriousness.  But eight years of cold and hunger and pain were more than enough to convince  Tom that there was no God.  And if there was no God, there was no devil either.

He hadn't considered Faeries.  Faeries, with their malicious natures and beautiful looks.  Faeries, who were said to steal human children and leave one of their own in it's place.

Here, perhaps, was an answer.  An answer not just to the source of his talents, but to the true nature of his parents.

"The Faerie Marketplace it is," Tom said at last.  "I simply hope it is everything you promised it to be.  I would be _disappointed_  otherwise."

 

* * *

The village of Wall was everything Black and Crouch had said it would be - small, rural, and agrarian. There was only one inn in the village, and it was here that Tom and his followers found accommodation. There were only four room available by the time they arrived. Tom took one room to himself, the rest of the boys sharing the remaining three rooms between the ten of them.

Once they had stowed their luggage and made themselves more presentable, the group met in the small lobby of the inn.

"Food first, and then we'll spend some time getting to know the village," Tom said, not bothering to consult with anyone. He knew whatever he said would be followed to the letter.

Knott went to inquire where they could find food, and as they stood around waiting, Tom felt the familiar sensation of eyes fixed on him. It was far from uncommon. He knew he was handsome, and frequently used the fact to manipulate those people who were ensnared into doing his bidding.

He causally positioned himself so that he could see who was staring at him.

It was a woman, likely the innkeepers daughter. This was by no means unusual. What was unusual was the _way_ she stared at him. It was admiration or attraction that filled her gaze, but rather recognition. Recognition and a hit of fear.

Tom frowned. He had worked hard to ensure that his darker nature was hidden until he wanted to reveal it. He didn't know the girl. Had never threatened or frightened her. So why did she look at him as if she knew him? Why did she fear him, when they had never spoken?

"I'll be back," Tom said simply, slipping away from the wall and walking purposefully towards the girl, being certain to fix his most charming expression in place.

He heard his followers snickering under their breath, but Tom paid them no mind.  He had eyes only for the girl.

She looked up and saw him, blanching before looking hurriedly down to avoid meeting his gaze.

"Excuse me," he said, tone unfailingly polite.  "But do I know you?"

She looked up wide eyed and vigorously shook her head.

"It's just, I saw you looking at me before, and it seemed as if you recognized me.  I simply didn't want to be rude, if we had met and I didn't remember."

"No sir," she mumbled, her gaze darting from between her boots to Tom's face.  "You just look like someone I know, is all."

"Oh?" Tom asked.

"Mr. Riddle, sir.  He lives up on the hill, with his parents.  I swear, you're his spitting image."

Tom froze.  Riddle.  A man named Riddle, who lived in the village.  A village that had a festival every nine years.  A festival that his followers who had been exposed to his talents still insisted on calling "magical".  A festival that would have been held in late April or early May.  Approximately eight months before Tom's own birth, at least according to the orphanage.  Given that the matron had barely crawled out of the bottle for more than a few moments at a time in Tom's entire residency at Wool's, he was more that willing to believe that there might some doubt as to his precise date of birth.

More.  Tom needed to know more.

It took a bit more work than it would ordinarily have, but Tom managed to charm a story out of the innkeeper's daughter.  Rumor and supersition, twisted by eighteen years of idiots trying to impart morals, but invaluable nonetheless.

There had been a woman in the market, or so the story went.  An ugly, unnatural woman, with inhuman features. She had taken one look at Wall's golden son and had decided that she would have him for herself.  Tom Riddle had vanished from his bed that first night of the market and had not returned until after it had passed.  When he had returned, it had been with haunted eyes, talking of witchcraft and spells.

"She bewitched him, you see," the girl whispered, eyes wide with fear.  "Everyone knows it.  He won't set foot outside his house during the festival now.  Too afraid that the witch will be back to take his soul for good this time."

So Tom would have to track Riddle down himself.  But not yet.  Not until he knew more.

He thanked her for the information with a charming grin before making his way back to his companions.  He ignored their insipid grins and knowing smirks and dismissed them.

"You all eat," he told them, "and find ways to occupy yourselves.  I will see you at the start of the festival."

There were questions they were dying to ask.  That much was obvious from their expressions.  Still, they knew better than to contradict him.  For all that his tone had been informal, they knew that his words had been an order.  They knew the consequences far too well to dare to disobey.

Tom spent the next two days wondering around Wall.  He had expected to attract some attention, being a stranger, but the stares that followed him wherever he went were beyond his expectations.

The whispers, too.  Tom had grown used to them in the orphanage, and for all that the words were different, the tone was same.

The word "bastard" came to him on snatches of the wind.  So too did "looks just like his father."

The more he heard, the more convinced he became that the town of Wall held the key to his heritage.  The villagers, at least, certainly seemed to think so.   He ignored the whispers of the children, of the young women and the boys not yet sent off to war.  Their stories would be filtered, second or thirdhand information.  Useless for his purpose.  No, what Tom needed was firsthand information, or as close to it as he could get.

He focused his attention on those forty and older.  They were the ones who reacted the worst to his presence, which told him a great deal.  The theory he was putting together seemed more and more sound, for all that he would have to wait until the Market to truly substantiate anything.  From his conversations with the residents of Wall, the only time travel was allowed to the meadow on the other side of the wall was during the festival.  Which raised the question, if Tom had been conceived with a resident of the world on the other side of the wall, how had he ended up back here?  How had he ended up at Wool's?

The practice of guarding the wall at all times would be to his benefit.  Careful questions and the full force of his charm was enough to discover the names of those who had been on guard in the January and February of 1926.  It didn't take long to get a name -  Rod Freddy.

Tom knocked on the door to a small, slightly run down cottage near the center of the village.  It was Mrs. Freddy who opened the door, or at least Tom assumed as much.  She took one look at him and blanched in a manner that was fast becoming familiar to Tom.  He gave her his most charming, disarming smile.

"Good afternoon," Tom said, using his most polished, posh accent.  The one he had taught himself while at Wool's, after seeing the way people would sneer at him when they heard him speak.  "I was looking for Mr. Rod Freddy.  Is he available?"

"What do you want to talk to him about?" the woman asked, eyes filled with suspicion.

"The winter of 1926," Tom answered.

She blanched again.

"It's you, isn't it?" she said, staring at him with fearful eyes.  "The Riddle bastard."

Tom clenched his teeth, but he made sure to keep his expression open and non-threatening.  As much as the word galled him, it was a sign he was exactly where he needed to be.  Answers.  He would finally have answers.

"I just want to understand what happened that night," Tom answered.

She looked at him for a long moment, obviously wary.  Before Tom had a chance to react, she had shut the door in his face.

Tom stared at the door blankly.  How dare she.  How _dare_ she.  Did she honestly think a piece of wood could keep _him_  at bay?  That he would allow _anything_ to stop him, now that he was finally so close to the answers he had searched for all his life?  He would show her.  He would teach her exactly what "the Riddle bastard" was capable of.

Tom placed his hand on the door and began calling his magic to him, ready to blast the thing to pieces.  Before he had the chance to, however, the door swung open, and Tom let his arm fall to his side at once, his magic dissipating as quickly as he had gathered it.

Standing on the other side of the door was a heavyset man in his forties with a dour face.  The look he gave Tom was filled with disgust and mistrust, and Tom had to fight the urge to teach him a lesson.  The truth.  Above all else, Tom wanted the truth.  The rest could wait.

"Mr. Freddy?" Tom inquired politely.

"It's you, inninit?" the man said, staring at him with narrowed eyes.  "I'd recognize those eyes anywhere.  Dark, soulless things.  How could I forget?"

Tom clenched his jaw, but kept his face outwardly pleasant.

"I just want to know where I came from, Mr. Freddy," Tom said, playing the part of brave orphan.

He watched with glee as the disgust faded somewhat, for all that he still stared at Tom with mistrust.  But progress was progress.

"Suppose you've heard now, about the witch and Mr. Riddle?"

Tom nodded.

"I tell you what you want to know, you leave me and mine alone.  You never come round here again.  Understand?"

Tom nodded after only the slightest hesitation.  It was a reasonable request.  Once the man told him what he wished to know, Tom doubted he would have reason to ever seek him out again.  If, after he had heard what the man decided to say, he changed his mind, it wasn't as if he'd ever allowed his word to bind him before.

"It was a night in late January," Freddy said, his eyes somewhat hazy as he recalled the past.  "I was taking my turn guarding the gap, along with another bloke, Withers.  Started out the way all shifts at the gap do - dull as toast.  But just after nightfall, we heard footsteps approaching.  Not from our side, but the other side.  Withers and I, we argued as to what to do about it.  Our job was to stop anything from our side crossing over. Never said nothing about stopping those on the other side from crossing over here.  We went back and forth, exchanging angry words at a whisper about it.  Finally decided that once he got to the gap, one of us would hold him there while the other went to get the mayor.  Let him decide what to do about it."

Tom fought the urge to reach out and shake the man.  He didn't care about the petty squabbles of two idiots.  All he cared about was how he had come to be here, rather than the other side.  He clenched his jaw and reigned in his violent impulses with effort.  Two more minutes.  He would give the man two more minutes to come to the point, and then he would redirect Freddy.  Forcefully, if need be.

"It were a man, come to the gap," Freddy answered.  "Short and old, but you can't trust the appearances of them on the other side.  We asked him his business, and he handed us the basket he was carrying, then turned and left.  All without saying a word."

Freddy's beady eyes met Tom's for the first time since he began telling the story.

"You were and unnatural thing even then," Freddy said.  "Didn't fuss.  Didn't cry.  Just stared, with those dark eyes of yours.  Stared, like you was staring into my soul."

Tom stared at him now, keeping his eyes fixed on the man's own.  He had learned long ago that he could pull the thoughts from people's heads at times, if he wanted.  And now?  Now he wanted.

"Stared at me just like you're staring now," Freddy said before jerking his eyes away.

Tom clenched his jaw, but kept his face impassive.  Close.  He'd been so close.  But all he'd gotten was a glimpse of a baby in a basket, wrapped in a blanket and holding a letter.  Nothing useful, before Freddy had turned away.

"The letter with you was address to Mr. Riddle," Freddy said, looking at Tom but never quite meeting his gaze, to Tom's frustration.  "So I left Withers at the wall, and made my way to the Riddle's house," Freddy said, jerking his head in the direction of the large house up on the hill.  "Left you with the maid and then went back to my post.  That was the last anybody heard of you," Freddy said.  "At least until today."

Tom closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking in the words.  So he had been born on the other side of the wall.  Born in a place these people feared, in place that was forbidden all but a few days every nine years.  A place where the idea of a woman bewitching a man was not laughed at, but was taken as fact, was spoken of in hushed, fearful whispers.

Answers, at last.  Answers he had searched for since he was old enough to ask questions.

Every answer he found, however, lead only to more questions.  How had he ended up at Wool's in London, if his basket had been left at the gap in the wall.  Who was his mother, and why had she not raised him?  Why had she doomed him to this life of questions and suffering? 

But Tom was close.  He could feel it.  Before the Marketplace was over, he would have his answers.  He would not allow anything else.

"What was the maid's name?" Tom asked.

Freddy stared at him, blank faced and stupid.

"The maid," Tom snapped.  "The maid who answered the door, the one you left the basket with.  What was her name?"

"Dot," the man answered at last.  "Dot Jones."

"And where does Dot Jones live?"

"The other side of the hill," the man answered.  "Near the Hanged Man.  The tavern hearabouts."

"I know it," Tom said sharply.  

He had spent much of the morning at the tavern, learning from scraps of conversation he overheard and charming those he wished to entice into sharing more. It was the leads he had discovered there that had eventually lead him to Freddy.  As important as Freddy's information had been, Tom still had to hold back a swell of frustration.  Finding Dot while he was in the area would have been useful.

But he could find her now.  Dot, he felt, was the last person he needed to speak to on this side of the wall, and he had more than enough time to learn everything she knew before the Market began.  Only once he knew everything he could would Tom confront his father.

He gave Rod Freddy a stiff thank you and had the door slammed in his face.  Tom gave brief consideration to the idea of burning the cottage to the ground, insuring Mr. and Mrs. Freddy were inside while he did so, before shaking off the impulse.  He had more important matters to attend to, and he could always return if he still found the idea enticing once he'd given his temper a chance to cool.

It was easy enough to retrace his steps from an hour earlier.  The Hanged Man came into view once again, and Tom ducked his head in just long enough to learn how to find his way to the house of Dot Jones.  The directions lead him to a modest cottage, and Tom knocked on a door for the second time that afternoon, anticipation coiling tight in his gut.

The door opened, revealing a woman a few years older than Freddy, her hair more gray than brown, creases in her brow and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

She took one look at him and let out a yelp of fright, doing her best to slam the door in his face.

After his reception at the Freddy's, Tom was prepared.  He stuck his foot in the doorway to prevent it from closing even as he slapped his palm against the door, stopping it in its tracks. Another shove, and it swung open. Tom was far stronger than Jones', and her feeble attempts to keep the door closed did nothing to deter him. Tom would get what he came for. He would not allow anything to stop him now that he was so close.

Tom stepped over the threshold and then willed the door shut behind him, locking it with a casual wave of his hand.  Jones took a step back for every step forward Tom took, until she had backed herself into the wall.  Tom stepped forward until he towered over her.

"Look at me," he ordered.

Fearful brown eyes darted up at him before looking away again.

"Look at me," he snapped again.

Her gaze remained fixed on the floor and Tom reached out, grasping her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes.  Gazing into her eyes, Tom reached out for her thoughts, fixing them in his mental view.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked her, using that special tone of voice that prompted people to tell the truth.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she answered her eyes wide, voice trembling.

The hand that wasn't holding her chin curled into a fist.  It was true, then.  He was the "Riddle bastard" as so many had put it.  How else could a woman from a small village several hours ride from London know his name?

"What happened?" Tom demanded.  "The day Roy Freddy dropped off the baby in the basket, what happened?"

"I took you inside and summoned Mr. Riddle," she said, and Tom watched the memory of the events unfold, ignoring the words that poured from her mouth in favor of the images within her head.

Tom couldn't help the startled blink of surprise when he set eyes on the youngest Riddle.  For all the comments of him looking like his father, he still had not been prepared to face a man who was his spitting image.  He could see hints of his features in the elder Riddles, but he could have been his father's doppleganger.  It was as if he was being given a glimpse at his visage a handful of years into the future.

Tom Riddle Sr looked into the basket and blanched, his face turing sheet white.

"That is not mine!" Tom Riddle swore the second he set eyes on the babe.  "That isn't even  _human_.  It's mother bewitched me!"

And he stormed off without even glancing at the basket again.

Tom watched through Jones' eyes as the elder Mr. Riddle bent down and picked up the paper that rested in the basket.  It was not a letter, as Freddy had claimed, but rather a simple scrap of parchment.   One bearing the words  "Tom Marvolo Riddle" and nothing else.  Dot hid in the shadows as Mr. and Mrs. Riddle discussed what was to be done with the "creature" in the basket.

"We can't simply abandon it!" Mrs. Riddle argued when Mr. Riddle suggested leaving it...leaving _him_  out in the cold for the winter to dispose of.  "It...it may be unnatural, but the blood of our family runs in its veins!  We have a duty, here."

Mr. Riddle's face softened the slightest bit in the face of his wife's determination.

"Very well," he relented.  "But the creature can by no means stay here," he warned her.

"Of course not!" Mrs. Riddle said, sounding scandalized.  "Just think of the scandal!  And poor Tom, he's been through enough already.  He doesn't need the reminder of the ordeal dangled under his nose for years to come.  We must send it away, of course."

Jones was called away from her spying to rejoin the Riddle's formally.  She was given the baby's basket, and an envelope with a hastily scrawled letter and an alarming large sum of bank notes. 

"Take him to an orphanage in London.  It doesn't matter which one.  Just take him there and leave this letter and tell _no one,"_ Mr. Riddle ordered her, dark eyes somewhat wild.

"Your silence in this matter will not be forgotten, Dot," Mrs. Riddle told her, looking pale but resolute.

So Dot had gone, riding in the Riddle's car through the night, arriving before the gates of Wools in the gray light of the early morning.  She passed through the familiar wrought iron gates before knocking on the door to the orphanage, trembling with fright and cold.  When the door was opened, she passed both the basket and the letter to the familiar form of Mrs. Cole before turning and all but running back to the streets of London.

Tom yanked himself back from her mind, seething with barely controlled rage.  Cast out.  Thrown away, like so much garbage.  The fistful of pounds had no doubt been to encourage Mrs. Cole's discretion. Perhaps something to cover his expenses. He was their blood, after all.

Blood that Tom would relish spilling.

He ripped the memory of his presence from Jones' mind. He couldn't risk her going to the Riddles.  He didn't want them forewarned.

The Riddles would pay for what they had done to him.  Tom would make certain of it.


End file.
